


calm emotions

by faerieflower



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: DnD AU sorta, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining, Secret Relationship, Tags May Change, annette is a bard, felix is a dragon, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23139652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerieflower/pseuds/faerieflower
Summary: There’s a legend that runs through Annette’s lineage—telling of a Dominic bard that sang an ancient song, charming a dragon into her embrace.But never did Annette think she’d do the same. Never in a million years did she think a dragon—a half-dragon, more precisely—would fall into her arms, asking her to sing him another song.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 1
Kudos: 35





	calm emotions

**Author's Note:**

> i thought to myself, “haha wouldnt it be funny if i took the ‘bard seduces a dragon’ dnd meme and turned it into a netteflix fic” and before i knew it this fic materialized before me. forgive me

:♡*ﾟ✿ 

Annette doesn’t like to flatter herself, but she can admit her charm is one of her finer qualities. Charm, after all, is what a bard is trained to hone more than anything. The School of Sorcery in Faerghus taught her that, just as a wizard would perfect their magic, a bard would perfect their performance if they are to strive for further greatness.

And performance is such a broad thing, Annette muses—it ranges from the way you heave yourself out of bed in the morning, to the way you conduct yourself in conversations, to the way you sing in a busy tavern, until you do all these things so effortlessly that they become second nature.

But effortlessness has never been something of a strong suit for her. 

All her life, she’s been told she puts too much effort, only to fail at everything she tries. And in those moments, she thanks the stubborn Dominic blood that runs through her—because that stubbornness makes her want to try even harder to excel. It makes her want to keep learning.

Today, she learns that stubbornness comes in many different forms. Sylvain’s, particularly, is the type of resolve that doesn’t  _ want _ to learn.

“We have this discussion every single time—”

She pities Dimitri’s bad habit of biting at Sylvain’s bait. He was ever so amenable.

“—Yeah, but come on, it’s the Lune Festival! I should be allowed to have my fun, yeah? That’s practically the duty of a bard—”

“Here we go again. . .” Dimitri heaves a sigh, “Don’t tell me you’re gonna make Annette explain to you a real bard’s duty again, are you, Sylvain?”

Would that be the third or fourth time this week, she wonders? Regardless, Annette fiddles with her drink (hot chocolate, mind you, though dare not call her childish for it) and hums. “I’m not gonna give him the time of day.”

“That’s cruel,” Sylvain huffs, though his pout doesn’t reach the playful look in his eyes. “I’m kidding, you guys. I promise I’ll be back in time for the concert. It’s just—some of these ladies look too pretty to pass up, you know? And I’ll only get a  _ little _ drunk.”

“Just leave the singing to Annie,” Mercedes says. “And play that lute of yours as quietly as possible.”

“My lute-playing isn’t even bad!” He protests. Laughter erupts amongst the party, tankards clanking against the wooden table in a fit of rowdy hysterics.

Though Ingrid seems unamused, “Seriously. . . don’t make an embarrassment of yourself. We’re here to do our job. That means keeping your guard up—and  _ not _ being an idiot, as much of a challenge that may be for you.”

“Honestly?” Ashe chimes in. “Just being able to protect people, and making sure everyone is safe to have their fun. . . it's rewarding in its own way, I think!”

Annette’s mindset is much the same. She doesn’t want to fight with Sylvain in the way that Ingrid and Dimitri gladly will, though she wonders if that’s her dislike for conflict or inability to hold a conversation with him that encourages her thought process. But she wants to tell him to focus—that “all of the fine ladies in Fhirdiad” (his words, of course) can wait until their safety is assured. Though they are blessed with an era of peace, and Annette’s never been one pessimistic enough to insist otherwise, she still knows it’d be a fool’s errand to not take precautions.

For the past few weeks, they’ve been in Fhirdiad, because that’s where their job—assigned by the King, himself, and she’s still yet to believe it—lead them. Their duty is to guard the capital while preparations are being made for the Lune Festival, an annual week-long celebration held in honor of the Goddess, beginning tonight. And, yes, a part of her indeed wishes they had the luxury of coming here under more pleasant circumstances. A circumstance that might grant Annette self-indulgence—she pictures it, her and Mercie taste-testing all the dessert scones and tortes, donning elegant tulle gowns, singing songs and catching eyes… 

But, yes—Goddess, she got ahead of herself there—the most important of matters is protecting the civilians of the Capital.

When the innkeeper comes around, and they pay for their breakfasts—Ingrid doesn’t forget to scold Sylvain for drinking so much so early in the morning—the party of seven heads out for another day’s work.

That’s when a woman rushes forward, maneuvering her way through the crowd in desperation, and takes Annette’s hands in her own in mere moments. 

She startles, exchanges worried looks to her fellow mercenaries, then fixes her attention upon the woman—the stranger—before her.

“You—” she begins, breathlessly. “You’re the Blue Lions?”

She must’ve seen their brooches. Annette wore hers with pride. Nevertheless—this might be a good time to put that charm of hers on display. Annette beams, says with confidence, “We sure are, ma’am.”

“What troubles you?” Dimitri asks, comes up beside Annette and rests a hand upon her shoulder. She can tell he’s concerned, of course, but not just for the stranger’s well-being. She wants to tell him to be at ease—this brotherly protectiveness of his was nothing short of embarrassing.

“It’s—a Demonic Beast,” the woman scarcely catches her breath, brushes the dust off her knees as she rises, “at the abandoned chapel west of here, it—my daughter and I went there to pray at her father’s—her father’s grave, but. . . Goddess, it. . .”

“Calm yourself,” Dedue says, and while Annette knows he means it comfortingly, his tone is that of a command rather than reassurance. “Is your daughter safe?”

“She’s with me, unharmed—Thank the Goddess—but I dread to think what could happen,” she gasps, the stress of the matter depriving her of air, “to—to the graves, or to anyone else who would come there to pray as we did… Please, you must do something—”

“To the west, right?” Annette steps towards her, smiles as if the idea of coming face to face with a Demonic Beast isn’t something of nightmares. 

This—smiling in the face of adversity, to the faces of those too afraid to do so, that they might be soothed enough to smile themselves—it is, as Sylvain or Dimitri might put it, a ‘bard’s duty.’ A duty to raise spirits and quell the fears this world burdens upon heavy shoulders. If Annette can lift shoulders and minds, hearten even the most unlikely of souls, then being called an overachiever is worth it. All the effort she puts in will be so very, very worth it.

“Ah, y-yes—just west of here, I can take you there if you—“

“No need for that,” Annette assures her, smile unwavering. “We’ll deal with it, so please don’t worry, ma’am! The Blue Lions will make sure nobody gets hurt, and everyone will be happy and healthy in time for tonight’s festivities!”

“Oh, miss, I,” the woman is nearly brought to tears (Annette, habitually, has to suppress her own) and says, “I cannot thank you enough. . . we aren’t doing too well with—with funds, but surely I can conjure up some gold to—“

“Nuh uh,” Mercedes says sweetly. “Don’t you pay us a single pretty coin! We’re doing this for the safety of the people, after all.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain agrees—oh Goddess, he  _ agrees _ ? Annette dreads to hear the rest of this sentence— “Besides, from a smokin’ mom like you, I might ask for payment of. . . a different fashion— _ Hells _ , Ingrid, it was a joke!  _ Ow _ !—“

“Enough of this,” Dimitri says. It is very evident, the way he blocks out Sylvain’s existence for the sake of his own composure. She finds herself doing the same. “We need to make haste to that beast and slay it as soon as possible.”

“Agreed.” Dedue turns. “However, if what we are dealing with is indeed a Demonic Beast, then the seven of us will not be enough.”

“Does it matter?” Ashe asks, frantic. “At least for now, let’s go see what we’re dealing with! And—and if it’s beyond our capabilities, we can ask the King to lend us some battalions from the Capital. Surely he’d understand the severity of the situation!”

“There’s no time to stand idly by and discuss this,” Dimitri says. “Right now, we need to hurry to the chapel. Come—with me!”

—

They have Ashe scout ahead to survey the area, (his stealth is unrivaled, she’s sure of it) once Dimitri thinks they might be nearing the chapel. Once the fog starts settling in, Annette lights a flame in one hand and clears the air by gently waving it ahead of her—though Ingrid chastises her for the reckless maneuver. Annette huffs—she thought it would be helpful, but Ingrid has never been the type to take risks, which she could, at the very least, respect.

Ashe returns, startles the group a bit with his silent, thus sudden approach. He whispers, his voice cracking delicately in an undertone, “I—It’s like I can hear something, but the fog is too thick—“

A thud. The group halts, still like statues.

All Annette can think is, _ Goddess help us _ , when the thuds follow one another all too similar to trudging footsteps.

Can they even whisper to one another, devise some semblance of a proper plan beyond the one they discussed on their way here?

Or have they no choice but to fight for their lives, in this moment?

_ We could run _ , she thinks. But—but no. That would hardly be heroic.

So she decides to stick with the plan. Annette conjures up one of her spells—places it upon Dimitri, who nods to her in acknowledgment. His vigor, even externally, looks to be fortified by her magic. She smiles, (bolstering her allies, magically or otherwise, was a feeling she never tired of) and with that, he rushes forward along Dedue. To no surprise, he intends to serve as Dimitri’s shield for this initial strike.

The fog clears with their advance, their weapons trailing in the wake, and just before the fog engulfs them again, Dimitri takes one large, powerful circular swipe of his lance—a movement not unlike a tornado, she thinks—to clear the mist.

That’s when she sees it. 

Regrets looking for it, in the first place.

A Demonic Beast, but one with no bones sticking out, no skull to cover its face. Somehow, its appearance, so normal, far from demonic or beastly. . . it‘s chilling, horrifying, and  _ unusual _ , most of all. In fact, she’s never seen anything like it, but perhaps that’s a blessing.

A dragon, azure and teal scales akin to opalescent glass, stands before them. Sharp fangs baring at the two men that have threatened its space. Annette wants to cry out,  _ ‘get back, we should just run’ _ —but Dimitri and Dedue have other plans in mind. 

The group scatters, and she feels Mercedes tug at her sleeve, urging her behind a cobbled, mossy wall of the chapel so that they are out of view. Out of range, but not out of  _ range _ —a mage’s motto, one she knows like the back of her hand.

Her mind begins racing. What of her spells could possibly leave a mark on something that looks so immortal? It appears far too. . . beautiful doesn’t seem the appropriate word. . . ethereal to be a Demonic Beast. And yet, what else can it be but that?  _ Goddess _ , does it matter what it is? It’s terrorizing a sacred graveyard—it needs to go down, and it needs to be slain before it becomes a threat to Fhirdiad.

Annette nods to herself, composes her frenzied thoughts and prepares a spell. Any spell. But she decides upon Excalibur, her strongest. She glances beyond the wall, stiffens as she watches the beast roar in all its might, surrounded by a swift pair of her most powerful allies.

If it manages to take even one of them down, then, well. . . she would do well not to underestimate this enemy of theirs.

She waits, evaluates every inch of the beast for a weak spot—a piece of skin exposed and vulnerable, like its underbelly, or the back of its head. . . knowing these things would give her an easy advantage. But as she studies further, a chill slithers down her spine like a snake, leaving her perturbed.

Its movements are fast. Dimitri can’t land a single hit.

Dedue is struggling even more so. His blows are hard-hitting, only if they hit at all. And they haven’t.

This is—this is  _ bad _ .

It might be compensating for a frail constitution, or a weak point on its body that it won’t dare leave vulnerable. If she can just find it, see it with her own eyes, then perhaps she’ll be able to grant her allies an opening to attack. . .

But it spots her.

Glares at her with slit, brown eyes, and she freezes. Her spell fizzles.

“Annie! Watch—“

Its claws come raining down upon her, nearly striking her head clean off. She gets lucky, dodges just in the nick of time—but consequently, from the sheer force of the attack and her desperate evasion, she tumbles, rolling onto the muddy grass and onto her side. She curses herself, but hasn’t the time to dwell on it when the beast lunges for yet another assault—this time with an unhinged jaw, and a terrifying set of fangs.

But it roars suddenly, rears back in pain, and Annette sees the arrow lodged into the skin of its neck. Thank the Goddess—Ashe just saved her life.

And yet. . .

Much to her dismay, the beast shakes—the earth rumbles with its very might—and the arrow falls, splits in two from where it was embedded. They’ve not yet made a mark on this thing. . . She wants to say fleeing is their best course of action, but. . .

As the beast stands before her, and she’s stunned to stillness, she at least gets a closer look at it (though she’s not sure if she wants to). In that moment, it’s like something clicks in her mind, a piece in the puzzle of her thoughts—but the adrenaline of the moment just as quickly washes it away.

She has to take charge. This can’t get out of hand. “Everyone! We don’t stand a chance against this thing! We need to—“

Dimitri charges forward with no regard for her words, lance clutched in both hands. And just as he goes for a downward slash from above, it ascends into the air with a flap of devilish wings—then swiftly, it descends upon the roof of the rickety church building.

That makes things harder, she curses.

“She’s right, Dimitri,” Sylvain runs a hand through his hair, sweat trickling down his forehead. At least he isn’t taking this as lightly as he does everything else. “We need to run before one of us gets our head severed. Seriously.”

Dimitri doesn’t want to admit it—doesn’t want to leave the dragon alive, let it breathe another moment. She can tell. But, ultimately, it’s the priority of his allies’ well-being that lowers his lance.

His gaze, however, does not break that of the dragon’s above. “So be it.”

He signals for everyone to flee back to the Capital, and the group departs at full speed—not granting the luxury of any openings for the beast. But Annette, trailing behind the group (she’s not nearly fast enough to match their pace) finds herself slowing.

Turning, to look up at the silhouette of the opalescent dragon.

And meeting its eyes.

. . .

Something clicks again. 

Her breath hitches, and when the beast’s wings start to rise, she continues fleeing the opposite direction—knowing full well she’s coming back.


End file.
